Spear-Points Gleaming: A Pre-Napoleonic Fic
by ChiefArmadillo
Summary: In the year 1793, Musketier Markus Kraus of the Mantler Heer finds himself assigned to clear the Rak tribe from the cold Lalberien Desert.
1. Stop Your Dreaming

**I can't find any pre-Great War fics so I decided to make one.**

**Please note that the Atlesians in this fic speak German, and Vale speaks English. The Mistrali will speak a sort of Latinized Japanese; Japanese words with a Latin alphabet and English grammar. Vacuo doesn't exist yet, and its future territory is a dumpster fire with several official languages.**

* * *

Markus awoke suddenly, startled by the sudden noise.

"SOLDATEN, GET UP! LOS, LOS, LOS!"

He rapidly rose as he heard his NCO. He stood at attention, waiting for orders as he scanned the area.

Markus was outside, at an abandoned village's farm the 4. Truppe had commandeered to serve as an outpost. He and his truppe of 52 men all stood at attention in front of the unpainted wooden barn. In front of them were four Feuerführer and Unterführer, two Oberführer, commanded by one Feldführer. He noticed that there was a man still leaning on the wall in a sleeping position, with about thirty flies on him. He had died during the night, likely due to food poisoning. It was a shame that only aristocrats had unlocked auras.

"Just another body we'll have to clean up," the Musketier thought to himself.

The rankers were wearing bright blue tunics, with steel-grey buttons. They wore white pantaloons, contrasting their dark bearskin caps. The NCOs wore the same uniform except for their silver cuffs and collars.

The thoughts of Markus were interrupted as his Feldführer spoke.

"Our messenger has returned with orders from headquarters. We are to continue our march southward through the Lalberien to join up with 3. Truppe. This is to prepare for an assault on the Raks. No time for questions or a meal as the campaign is already behind schedule. TRUPPE…"

He paused for about half a second, giving the squad enough time to prepare to follow a command.

"LEADER COLUMN!"

The Feldführer turned to the right as the truppe formed four columns about a foot behind him, each behind one Feuerführer or Unterführer. The lines were one soldier thick and 13 long, excluding their leaders, who were about five soldiers ahead of the Feldführer. The Feldführer had two Oberführer behind him.

"TRUPPE, MARCH!"

The men began to walk at a uniform pace into the cold, snowy wasteland as they sung a cadence. They dared not think of what was to come, for they knew they might not come back alive.

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**I know, it's short. It's my first fic, after all. I have a few chapters pre-made, next one's coming at 12 PM EST.**


	2. Pennants Streaming

**I lied, posting this earlier.**

**If you were wondering, a Truppe is a Platoon of today with 52 soldiers. It is split up into two Feuerteams of 13. Two Truppe make up a Kompanie, which in groups of three is a Bataillon. Infanterie-Battalions are often grouped into 4 to make a Brigade. Although 5 Brigades are supposed to be an Armee, the Kriegsbüro in practice sends its orders directly to a Brigade or Bataillon.**

**And yes, it's basically Prussians v. Zulus at this point. However, the fic will not just be some Atlesians massacring a tribe for long.**

**You'll have to look up the musket positions on your own.**

* * *

In the past weeks, 4. Truppe had marched several hundreds of miles and met 3. Truppe, reuniting 2. Kompanie once more. They were currently marching in line formation at a quick pace with their muskets supported. The soldiers were closing in on a Rak settlement. The Leutnant often spoke of how they would defeat the barbarous Raks effortlessly, but the Musketiere knew that even unorganized tribes could kill an army. After all, tunics do nothing to stop arrows, and line formations just make a large target.

After thirty seconds, the Kompanie began to see the tribesmen. The pale-skinned warriors had their bodies covered in fur, and their heads were obscured by thick hair. There were only spears in the Rak charge as the bowmen stayed behind. Meanwhile, the rankers had the latest Mantler muskets and the Kompanie even had a Gewehrteam with long-range rifles.

"KOMPANIE, FAST MARCH! FRONT RANK, BAYONET CHARGE! GEWEHRTEAM, FALL RIGHT AND HALT!"

Following the order, the company sped up. Markus and his fellow rankers adopted a charging position, and the row behind him kept their muskets in support position. The 13 riflemen stopped, faced right, and marched to the larger formation's right for twenty feet and stopped, turning toward the battlefield.

"RAK, RAK, RAK," Markus heard. This was the tribe's namesake: the spearmen's commanders kept yelling this right before the battle.

As the rankers moved closer and closer to the Raks, Markus began to hear gunshots. The Gewehrteam has begun firing. While this is a good thing, Markus was glad he was in the formation's left, so he could not be a victim of accidental friendly fire. Even a sharpshooter did not have perfect aim.

Markus's internal monologue was cut short as he realized they were only a few feet away from the barbarians. He quickly rammed his weapon's bayonet into a barbarian's chest as they were pulling their spear back to strike. Markus then pulled his weapon out of the spearman, causing them to fall over.

Markus had heard stories from 3. Truppe about how fierce the tribe was. They just would not die, continuing to fight with several stab wounds. As this is not what he had experienced, he figured that the men he was fighting were less trained due to the Raks' recent losses.

He and his rank kept doing this for several minutes. When a front ranker fell, another one from the rear rank took his place.

While an individual Rak was not as strong as 4. Truppe said, their stories still held true with the collective, as the barbarians did not retreat even after significant losses.

The Mantlers were clearly the victors of the battle. By the time it ended, they only lost 10 men, compared to the complete wipeout of the Rak village.

Markus was tired, but he knew the day was far from over. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, and any wasted minute would make the campaign take longer.

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**I know, very short. More chapters coming soon.**


	3. To This Battle Field

**Anotha' one!**

* * *

The Kompanie had marched for three days, not encountering any Raks. It was the evening and the soldiers were preparing to sleep after a terrible excuse of a meal.

Markus shivered along with the other rankers in the cold snow, hoping to find sleep.

"It's so fucking cold," Markus heard a fellow musketeer say.

Another voice followed. "Yeah, and the damn Leutnant doesn't give a shit. He just tells us to tough it out, that it can't be that bad, while he has his coat and tent full of mammoth fur and the finest Schnee wine."

A third ranker joined in. "And y'all better be lucky the Feuerführer isn't awake to hear that. He's the Leutnant's pet."

"Why does he report everything anyways," the first voice wondered aloud. "Doesn't every violation harm him as well?"

"The Feuerführer doesn't give a shit about the squad-score. Even if his squad is the best in the Welt, the Kriegsbüro won't give fire-shot to a Kolonial-Kompanie."

"Hey," Marko spoke out, "Shut the fuck up! We're trying to sleep!"

Even though Marko was just an Obergefreiter, not an NCO at all, he was effectively the squad leader when the NCO was gone. He also could not issue disciplinary action, but just as the Feuerführer was the Leutnant's pet, Marko was the Feuerführer's.

"Fuck you, Marko," one of the rankers grumbled.

* * *

The Kompanie was marching again, in standard leader-columns. Bored, Markus looked around. They were next to a forest, though they themselves were still in a clearing. Since trees were surviving here, they were nearing the end of the Lalberian, which hopefully meant the campaign would be over soon.

Soon enough. Markus ran out of things to monologue about, so he marched on silently. Hopefully, one of the NCOs would start a cadence to make the situation somewhat interesting.

Instead of a cadence, Markus received something worse from the NCOs.

"Hey, do you see that?"

It was quiet, but Markus could hear it. The NCOs, at the front of the line, could see something the rankers couldn't.

"Really? How did they get out here?"

Markus screamed internally. They would be seeing combat again. A Rak patrol was closing in on them, he thought. How many of the Kompanie would fall, how many friends would they lose?'

But no, it would be something much worse.

They heard a gunshot, followed by a comrade of his falling to the ground, clutching his chest.

"KOMPANIE, INTO THE TREES," the Leutnant ordered.

The 104 soldiers obeyed the order, running into the forest to their left. They took up positions next to the trees, some loading their weapons as they forgot to earlier.

They were all wondering who they were facing. Perhaps it was the Raks? Maybe they weren't so lucky, being faced with a rogue squad.

Markus observed his surroundings, as he frequently did. All of the squads were bunched up. They had been taught about spacing in the Handbuch, but this was a colonial unit, and most of the soldiers' experience with combat was just with Raks, where they remained in control at all times. The Raks didn't have artillery, so what's the point of proper spacing?

As Markus expected to happen, an entire squad was wiped out by an artillery shell. 13 men thrown away by an inexperienced Unteroffizier.

Wait, what? An artillery shell?

They weren't facing Raks or a Mantle squad. They were facing a properly-organized unit, of at least Truppe size.

The soldiers then saw a target. A very big one. Men in red coats with all-white pantaloons, ski caps, and tunics marched at them in several half-squad-size ranks, with their muskets in musket charge position.

They were facing a Vale unit. And, because they had artillery, a very well-equipped Vale platoon. Although the Mantlers probably had a numerical advantage, they were a mere Kolonial-Kompanie: A 102-man unit equipped only to fight an unorganized tribe.

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**I know, another short chapter. But at least it's three in one day!**

**"Fire-Shot" is a fire dust bullet. A normal soldier in this era would fire the bullets of our world with no dust.**


End file.
